Derrick's arm hooked around my shoulder the second I stepped into the office.
"Way to arrive in style, man."
I blinked, halfway through a yawn. "Uh?"
He grinned, steering me forward like he owned the hallway. "The Superleggera. You planning to make the rest of us look broke?"
"Oh." I rubbed the back of my neck, pretending to play dumb. "That."
"That?" Derrick laughed. "Who was that, your big brother? Or a rich friend or something?"
I smirked. "Or something."
He gave me a look. "Right. 'Or something.' I see how it is."
I didn't reply, just kept walking with him. The less I said, the better.
By the time we got to our desks, the office had begun to settle into its usual rhythm—the hum of printers, muted conversations, the low whir of the air conditioner. Tasha walked in a minute later, heels soft against the tiles. A few coworkers greeted her, their voices polite and eager in that early-morning, let's-get-on-her-good-side tone.
